


Caught

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Mutual Pining, Overprotective Robb, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8503654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: The first time they sleep together, she's on a break from Joffrey and they're both a little drunk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> in a nutshell: sansa breaks up with joffrey and sleeps with jon. she gets back with joff and… uh yeah, sleeps with jon again. angst, ~lies~, smut, mutual pining. pain.
> 
> to my jonsa fam: i love you and i am sorry.
> 
> many thanks to [subjunctive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive) for the beta!

The first time they sleep together, she's on a break from Joffrey and they're both a little drunk. 

Sansa doesn't mean for it to happen, but Jon -- Jon listens to her while she cries about Joff's latest transgressions, the whole stupid mess with Margaery Tyrell and the damned party. He's quiet and supportive throughout, downs a shot of whiskey when she pours it, and doesn't at all care that she came to find Robb but found him instead.

Still, she knows the question will come. Everyone’s asked it so far, each time she and Joff play this stupid break-up game, and it hasn’t gotten any easier to explain. 

It’s late into the night when Jon asks it: “God, Sansa. Why are you with him?”

Her stomach tightens into a knot. _Good question._ She can't tell him why, but she can't tell him why she won’t leave either. She doesn't love Joffrey. She doesn't think she ever has -- just the idea of a fair haired, modern day prince. But to put into words how her reputation at school is tied to his--the crowned Prince of University Landing fitting hand-in-hand with her sorority sister role; how she's worked so hard for her scholarship after everything that's happened to her family, how she can't lose it all because she can't _handle_ one entitled asshole -- is impossibly stupid, so she leans over and kisses Jon so she doesn't have to. It’s a coward’s move, but she’s not ashamed to be making it. He's sad, and she is too, and not talking about it is better than admitting she’s wasted a year of her life.

She expects to be rejected, or meet resistance, but Jon surprises her by matching her intensity in kind. He gasps her name, and threads his fingers through her loose hair, and she lets herself get lost in his touch. Her surprise is easily washed away by desire. Each time she means to stop, or pull away, she can’t bring herself to do it. She presses him down instead, all whiskey courage and adrenaline, and straddles his hips. He’s hard, and it feels good -- almost too good -- to rock down against him. She backs off a fraction to ask, “Is this okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says. He skims his hands up and down her arms as she suppresses a shiver at the sound of his low, gravelly voice. “Great. Really great.”

It's such a Jon thing to say, she thinks, and she kisses him again, humming happily as his grip tightens, holding her closer to his body. 

She discovers that he's a good kisser, a _really_ good kisser, and he huffs a laugh when she tells him so. “You are,” she insists. He’s the best she’s had, maybe, or maybe it’s not having to worry about her lack of experience, or feeling foolish because a moan might be met with a smirking laugh. It lifts a weight she didn’t know she was carrying, and the freedom makes her bold. The alcohol makes her bolder. She sits up after a while, breathing hard and filled with want. 

Jon watches her with eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide and black. “We don't have to do anything more,” he says, when she goes to undo his belt, his zipper. She pauses.

“You're right,” she says. “We don't. But I want to. Don’t you?” 

He groans in response. 

She blows him on the couch in the living room he shares with Robb, the pillow he gave her before she started under her knees. It's the first one she's ever given -- despite Joff’s many attempts at convincing her -- and it’s… different, but good. He's heavy in her mouth, the taste of him foreign and heady, and she's not sure she's doing anything right except for Jon’s gasping breaths that spur her on. She switches to her hand when her jaw gets sore, and he taps on her shoulder as a warning to plead out, but she doesn't let up. She takes him back in her mouth, and his hand spasms on his thigh when he comes, hot and bitter. She swallows it down.

He kisses her hard afterwards, like he's trying to lick all of him out of her, and then he fingers her until she’s shaking and moaning in his lap. She’s wetter than she's ever been in her life when she comes, digging her nails into the meat of his shoulder. And it could be the buzz -- it _must_ be the buzz -- but she dares to look at Jon as she does. His lips are parted, just barely, and she’s sure she’s never been looked at like he’s looking at her now: awe and something else. She melts against his chest with a sigh, still floating on a cloud of the best orgasm she's shared with another person.

After a moment, Jon tips them over and settles them on the couch. Sansa dozes in his arms, and he strokes his thumb against her skin. The apartment is quiet. The TV’s on mute, and she can’t see what’s on except for colored blurs reflecting in Jon’s eyes. It’s like they’re in their own little world, she thinks. He’s not her brother’s best friend. She’s not the sister that’s been off-limits since Robb realized his friends thought she was pretty or hot. But it’s not theirs to keep. It will only be a matter of time before reality sets in, and she has to get dressed and leave because Robb might come home from Jeyne’s before work and -- and she doesn’t know what Jon’s thinking, and she’s too afraid to ask. He’s kind, but a terrible liar.

“I can hear the cogs whirring,” Jon whispers. 

She tips her chin up to catch him in a kiss, because, for now, she can. “Then help me stop thinking.”

He does. He carries her to the bedroom and touches her, and she doesn’t think about anything but the feel of his hands against her thighs, her shivery skin, how good he feels inside of her. She focuses on the tight coil of tension that builds and builds between her legs, and nothing else. He whispers sweet, filthy things into her ear, begging her to voice her pleasure, and it doesn’t take long at all before she cries out against his neck, hands fisted in the sheets; utterly satisfied, but far from content.

 

-

 

Jon is going to hell, pure and simple. Because when Sansa leans down to kiss him, he should push her away. He should remind her they’ve been drinking -- that he doesn’t want her to regret anything in the morning, especially them. But he doesn’t. He pulls her closer; he kisses her back; he helps her undo his buckle. He lets her do whatever she wants, and she takes him apart piece by piece. The worst part, he thinks, is that she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. He brushes her hair behind her ear afterwards, and smiles when she laughs. Later, he tells her she’s beautiful.

They sleep little that night. They talk, mostly, and lounge around on his lumpy mattress. She changes into one of his faded fencing club t-shirts and she presses her cold feet against his calves. Jon’s reminded time and time again as their conversations go from inane to philosophical and back as to how smart Sansa is -- though he always remembers her being so. She used to help Bran and Arya with their homework when she was in high school. He would come over looking for Robb and find the three of them in the kitchen instead. More often than not, his arrival meant the end of productivity. He used to think Sansa hated him for it. He used to think she hated him, period. Now, he’s not so sure. 

Of all the Starks he thought he’d find banging on his door late into the night, he never thought it would be Sansa. They aren’t close, and never were. It used to bother him when he was younger -- like she was the last Stark holdout for no other reason except that everyone else liked him, so she chose to be contrary because no one else would.

It didn’t help that Robb was perfectly content with Sansa’s aversion to his friends either. He never said anything more about it than, “Sansa doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body,” or “I don’t know. You can’t win us _all_ , can you?” when Jon bothered asking. He stopped after a while; tried not to let it get to him. It didn't help, of course, that he's been halfway in love with her since they first met. A stupid crush because, while she's been nothing but ambivalent to him for most of their childhood, he knows that she's _kind_ , and sweet and selfless. She just wraps it up in such a way that you wouldn't even know it; barely-there smiles and courtesy that is both scathing and polite. 

The fact that she didn’t turn away when he told her Robb wasn’t home -- that she sat on the couch and told him all about his prick of an ex -- throws an entirely new wrench into _whatever_ it is that’s happening between them. He wants to ask, but he can’t bring himself to do it. It’s fear, he knows. Fear of breaking the fragile bond they’ve forged. Fear of learning he’s nothing more than a rebound. He doesn’t forget that she never answered his earlier question either, but he doesn’t press her for it. She doesn’t owe him anything, least of all an explanation. 

He almost asks her to give him a chance when the sun begins to rise. He’s delirious from the lack of sleep -- he hasn’t pulled a real, true overnighter since his undergrad years -- and it makes him honest and forthcoming. More so than he always is. It would be easy, he thinks. _She’s right here in my bed_. And she could stay, if she wanted to. He _wants_ her to.

But she grabs his wrist to check the watch he didn’t take off, and falls back against the sheets with a sad sigh when she sees the time. He knows it’s over then. She didn’t even have to say a word. The unspoken rule they’ve been breaking isn’t as escapable in the daytime, it seems, and Jon can’t do much but help Sansa gather her clothes when she says she should go. _Say something,_ he thinks. _Open your mouth and ask her out_. 

Each time he gathers the courage, he hears Robb’s threats from high school, or he imagines the look on Ned’s face, and Jon’s usual self-deprecation knocks him down a peg or two, and then he thinks it’s better to leave the night where it is. Even so, they stop here and there to kiss and hold one another, chasing intimacy that isn’t theirs to have in this new daytime world. 

Eventually he walks Sansa to her car, giving her one last, lingering kiss before they leave the apartment -- they’re _only friends_ , after this; they agreed -- and then he dutifully watches her drive off. He scrubs at his neck, standing at the curb like an idiot.

“Fuck,” he breathes. A car goes by and he startles, for one delirious moment thinking it's Robb come home to kick his ass, but it's not. _Robb_ , he thinks with just a touch of guilty despair. The last secret he kept from him was -- well, he honestly can't remember when or what it was. _Good job choosing sleeping with Sansa as your first_.

 

 

When Robb sees Jon later that evening he asks, “Did Sansa come over last night?”

Jon feels hot and cold all over, a confession already on the tip of his tongue because _how in the hell did he find out?_ The only reason he doesn’t blurt every last detail out is because Sansa expressly asked him not to. She even made him pinky-promise. The fact that Robb didn’t greet him with a tire-iron to the knee also helps calm his initial clench factor. “Yeah, um, her and that boyfriend of hers broke up,” he says, brushing an invisible piece of lint from his jeans. 

“About fucking time. I hated that little prick. Was she alright?”

“Yeah, I guess. Sad? Tears? We just -- you know, talked.” 

“You and Sansa.” He raises an eyebrow. “Talked.”

 _We did more than talk._ He swallows, wanting very badly to punch his inner voice. “Is it really so out of the realm of possibility?” 

“Guess not. I mean, you _can_ speak…” Robb sighs. “In all seriousness, though, I’m glad you were here to take care of her. Thanks, man.”

Robb claps a hand to Jon’s shoulder and smiles, tight-lipped and appreciative and Jon -- Jon can’t bring himself to reply.

 

-

 

The second time it happens --

They’re not at all drunk, Joff’s pin is on the lapel of her jacket, and Jon doesn’t know.

After the first time, she and Jon agree to stay friends. Or, rather, become friends. “Anything else would complicate things beyond belief,” she said, mostly trying to convince herself that sleeping with her brother’s best friend behind his back would be the worst idea _ever_. Still, they exchanged numbers. Which, in hindsight, is the exact opposite of playing it cool. She didn’t even wait a day before messaging him.

Sansa always considered Jon _Robb’s_ , even though he was close to the entire Stark family growing up; everyone except her and her mother, really. It’s strange, she thinks. He’s been a fixture in her life for as long as she can remember, but for the first time, she’s sitting up and taking notice. Sleeping with him -- well, it turned whatever dynamic they had (or didn't have) before on its head. Mostly in overt ways.

She starts to visit Robb more than she used to, and it’s only after her brother jokingly comments on the frequency that she has to admit -- only to herself, of course -- that she’s really only there to see Jon. She’s sure he’s noticed. She hopes he has. 

She’s hyper-aware of him now. Sometimes, before she can catch herself, she’ll get up and follow him to the kitchen: to flirt, to talk, to laugh over the meme battle they got into the day before. And, if she’s being honest, she wants him too. She wants to recapture the moment they shared, tangled together in the dark. She wants to kiss him again. She wants him to kiss her. More than anything, though, she wants to _try_ with him… but it’s an impossible dream.

The break-up with Joff didn’t last long, though she wishes it did. She wishes it lasted forever. But he came back, asking for forgiveness he didn’t deserve, and she gave it to him in a moment of weakness. He pinned her a week later, in front of his entire fraternity in front of cameras flashing. She’s never felt so cold as she did then; so manipulated, so naive and foolish. He never wanted her -- he just needed her. The moment Margaery moves on from Renly, Sansa knows she’ll be left in the dust. A Stark is good, but a Tyrell is better. A political campaign starts in college, she’s been told, and everyone needs to play their part. What they don’t say is that some parts are disposable. 

Spending time with Jon makes her want to rip Joff’s horrible pin from every piece of clothing she stabs it through, but she doesn’t. She’s worth more than what Joff’s made her. More than the mold she’s been poured into. She knows that. But she’s on a scholarship, school-funded, and the bursar’s name is Lannister. 

The worst part, though? The absolute worst part? She doesn’t tell anyone she and Joff have gotten back together. She keeps the news close to her chest. It’s a selfish secret. If she’s being honest -- and she’s rarely so these days -- there’s only one reason for it. Jon, she knows, wouldn't look at her twice if he knew… and that is precisely why she hasn't divulged the truth. 

Tonight, she’s blown off another mixer in favor of company she doesn’t hate. It’s movie night, and she can’t stop thinking about how much it all feels like a double date. She and Jon are in the kitchen, Jeyne and Robb in the living room, and she’s making popcorn because she needed an excuse to follow once Jon got up for refreshments. She doesn’t want to risk Robb’s suspicion -- a leftover worry he’s ingrained in her since high school. It’s sad. 

“How’re classes?” Jon asks. He offers her a beer, but she declines with a shake of her head.

“The same as they’ve always been,” she says. “Stressful, but I’m managing.”

“Two more years, yeah?”

“Don’t remind me…” She leans back against the counter. “Did you ever think about quitting? When you were in school?”

“Nearly every day, but everyone told me the college experience would be incomplete without a daily existential crisis.”

She laughs. “Then I’ll count myself lucky. I keep my existential musings to a once-weekly schedule.”

“What are you two laughing about in here?” Robb shouts from the next room. “Jon! Where’s my beer? You promised me beer!”

Jon rolls his eyes and gives Sansa a look that’s all _I can’t believe we have to put up with this abuse_. “You have two legs and a heartbeat!” he shouts back.

“Don’t worry, big brother,” Sansa joins in, nudging Jon aside to get to the fridge. “I’ve got you.”

“Thanks, San! You’re the best!” 

It’s past midnight when the movie ends, and Sansa’s patience for Robb quickly burns up when he begins to campaign for her to stay the night. “I’m not worried about _you_ ,” he insists. “I’m worried about everyone else.”

“Alright, _mom._ You can walk me to my car, if you’re so worried about me being snatched up in your _perfectly safe_ neighborhood,” she fires back, frustrated. “And I’m _not_ sleeping on that couch, so don’t even--”

“You can take my bed,” Jon cuts in, which serves to shut both Sansa and Robb up. He scrubs his hands through his hair. “Um -- if you want. I’ll sleep out here.”

Robb claps his hands together as if to say _problem solved_. He makes a big show of helping Jon make the couch up, and he retires to his room with Jeyne after giving Sansa a big, messy kiss to her temple and some placating words. “I love you, Sharky,” he says, and she blushes hard at the childhood nickname he’s dragged right out into the open -- the one he gave her when it was just the two of them still, the one he uses when he’s being particularly sentimental and overprotective because he knows how it tugs at her heartstrings. 

“Sharky?” Jon asks, once they’re alone. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.” 

“Shut up. It’s cute.”

“It is.” 

“And he only used it so I would stop being _mad_ at him… I mean, this is juvenile. He’s a man-child. Demanding I stay the night because he’s worried I’ll be kidnapped by some nefarious person.”

“I mean, it’s Robb…” He trails off, and Sansa sees his gaze flick down to her mouth. Not for the first time, Sansa’s reminded of how handsome he is, in a way she never considered until a month ago. “You know how he gets.”

She does know. He was the bane of her social life growing up. _If Robb knew what we did_ , she thinks. Would he be livid? Would he be happy his best friend was with his her? Would he kick Jon out? Fly off the handle? They’re questions Sansa isn’t sure she wants answered.

She bids Jon goodnight, and retires to his room. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable being here as she thought it would be. His bed is cool, comfortable and familiar, and she tucks her face into his pillow. It smells faintly of aftershave and detergent, and she wonders when he washed them. He told her that night how nice her hair smelled, that he liked her perfume. They were silly confessions, made to be shared in the dark, but now that she’s remembered, she can’t sleep. She thinks of Jon, sleeping on the couch just outside the door. She wonders if he’s up too, if he’s thinking of her. She grabs her phone and unlocks it. She tabs into their earlier conversation, and her stomach nearly goes to her throat when she sees the little gray dots bobbing back and forth. _He’s typing_. She stares at the screen for a long time, but nothing comes. She shoves the phone under the pillow, utterly disappointed.

She tosses and turns for an hour, then two. She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes to Jon tiptoeing across the carpet. She watches him for a moment, then pushes up onto her elbow. He freezes. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, “just getting another pillow.”

 _Liar._ She licks her lips, mouth gone dry from hope and adrenaline. “Were you really?”

There’s enough ambient light from outside that Sansa can see his expression. It’s the one she used to call _tortured_ behind his back when she was younger and much too judgmental. Jon is a good man. Loyal and honorable -- and she can only imagine how bad he feels for sleeping with her, knowing good and well how Robb would react, even if the stupidity of Robb’s version of _bro-code_ makes her want to tear her hair out.

She knows she needs to press him if she wants him to act. She needs to swallow down her guilt too. Her and Joffrey might as well be over in her heart, but -- they’re not. An omission of the truth is still a lie. But, looking at Jon, handsome and sweet and dappled in shadows, she doesn’t care. She extends her hand to him; _come here._ She sees him waver, and then she sees him break. He moves to her.

“I kept thinking about you in my bed,” Jon admits, when he’s close. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She pulls him down, and he goes easily; tonight, they’re two stars trapped in the same pull of gravity. “I wanted you to come,” she says, sighing against his chest. “I’m glad you did.” 

They simply lie together for a while, letting the embers of a memory burn between them. Then, Sansa moves up to kiss him. It’s a slippery slope, one kiss and touch leading to another boundary pushed, until she’s twisted on her side with Jon’s fingers stroking between her legs. She bites back her whimpers as she rolls onto his fingers. They have to be careful, and quiet, but when Jon slides inside of her, she can’t muffle her sigh. He stutters inside of her then, hips twitching against the curve of her ass, and she tips her head back against his shoulder so he can press open-mouthed kisses against her neck. They move together, slowly, languidly, until she can’t hold off any longer and asks for harder and faster. He anchors his hand under her knee and lifts her leg, opening her wider, and he snaps into her, over and over. She begs for it as quietly as she can, until she’s clenching around him and trembling from the intensity of her orgasm. It’s a sweet release.

He sets a silent alarm for thirty minutes after binning the condom and settling back beside her, and her stomach sinks when she realizes what it’s for. She’s half-tempted to say _screw it_ , _let Robb find out,_ but she’s tired… and it’s just so much easier this way. She laces their fingers together over her stomach and shuffles back into the curve of his body. He kisses her neck, and she closes her eyes. That little knot of tension inside of her that always seems to be there with school and Joffrey and the pressure of the entire world pressing down on her unwinds. It always seems to, when she’s close to Jon. 

She tries not to think about that fact. She _can’t_ afford to think about it. This means nothing to Jon. The alarm he set is a clear indicator of that. It’s just another stolen moment in another night. She’s not his, he’s not hers, and it’s enough. It has to be.


End file.
